Restless Defender
by Ravariel
Summary: Courfeyrac, returning from a bit of a mission, comes across a scene in the Paris slums which the paladin inside him cannot stand to ignore. Features a quote from Juvenal. Warning for prostitution and some related slurs.


_Luxury is more deadly than any foe. –Juvenal_

Hurrying back from a somewhat-shady trade which had, in the end, procured for the Cause three small boxes of bullets, Courfeyrac made his way through dark and narrow streets in a part of Paris even he rarely visited. Prostitutes on every corner waved to him and called out, but he kept his eyes front, looking neither at their misery nor at any remnants of their beauty. It was getting late and he had to tell Enjolras about the bullets.

On one particularly slummy street, a man was roughly grinding against a frail woman. Even this, Courfeyrac passed by. Priorities, he told himself, even if he _does _look rich enough to at least get her a bed for this—

"Stupid slut!"

Courfeyrac wasn't half a block on from the two figures when the shouted insult, the sound of a blow, and a woman's cry of pain stopped him dead in his tracks. Without a second's hesitation, he spun on his heel and ran back.

"All you can do for a living is lie on your back for men and you can't even do _that _properly? Go to hell, you—"

The man broke off, deprived of breath, for Courfeyrac had caught him up and slammed him against the wall.

"Listen here," said Courfeyrac, in a low and dangerous voice, "that's no way for you to be treating a lady. You are—"

"But she's a _prostitute!_" Desperate to get away, he threw a punch, which landed squarely against Courfeyrac's jaw.

Courfeyrac recoiled only a moment, then tightened his grip threateningly. "Does that make her less a _person?_" he demanded.

"Well, I—" he spluttered.

"No, it does not," Courfeyrac supplied, spitting out blood. "And you would do well to remember that in future, you wretched bastard, because your behavior leaves you unworthy of half a kiss from any woman. Demanding and shaming and—good God, I can't see why you'd do it!"

"I'm—I'm only here because my wife is cheating on me!" He turned restlessly in Courfeyrac's grip.

"You're missing the point," Courfeyrac said sternly. "The point is, this is a human being, and if you treat her like she's not one there will be consequences of one sort or another. Consider me an instrument of divine justice, if you will." And he threw the man to the pavement.

"Get out of here. Apologize to your wife, because you've likely treated her like she wasn't human as well. And hope to God you don't see me again, or you'll wish you'd started listening to your conscience years ago."

The man gave him one surly look, picked himself up off the street, and fled into the dark. Courfeyrac turned to the prostitute, who was keeping well back.

"How badly did he hurt you? Let me see."

She shook her head. "It's not worse than I'm used to, monsieur."

He drew closer—gently, slowly. "Like I said, mademoiselle, you're a human being. A lady. You oughtn't to be used to it at all."

Somewhat reassured, she approached him to show a forming bruise and cut on her cheekbone. Her customer, rich as he was, seemed to be both rough and strong, and his wedding ring had scratched her deeply.

Courfeyrac pulled out his handkerchief (it was a new one) to wipe the blood; she flinched away from him only a little, bearing the pain with a grim face of resignation. "Don't ruin your handkerchief, monsieur."

"I bought too many new ones last week. And this is a better use, anyway."

When he had finished, she pulled a rag from her clothing. "Let me return the favor, at least. You lost any teeth?"

He ran his tongue around in his mouth. "Nope, all there. Fair bit of blood, though—guess I bit my gum. And the jaw's bruising for sure."

"We match." She dared a bit of a smile. "You've got a cut from the ring, too." Taking her rag, she wiped at his chin.

When they were slightly cleaner, Courfeyrac's mind went back to the injustice of it all, and he sighed. "Had he even paid you yet?"

She hesitated; he waited patiently but without wavering for her answer. Eventually, she shook her head just a little. "—But monsieur, please don't think that you…"

"I don't think I have to, mademoiselle." He fumbled around in his pocket a bit, trying not to rattle the bullets much. "I just want to. Don't want you to be put out for the wasted time, and then me standing here talking...This enough?"

She took from the coins he held out, then sighed bitterly. "You'd think with him being so rich, he could afford to pay first."

"Luxury," quoted Courfeyrac, "more deadly than any foe." At her look of utter confusion, he explained. "A lot of people who are rich just don't see any more. Don't see that others are worth just as much as them, don't see that others have needs. I aim to change that when I can. But still, it keeps on, and it makes me so—so—" He ran an agitated hand through his hair.

"Dissatisfied?" she supplied. "Restless?"

"Both," he said. "As well as sad and angry. But the time will come, mademoiselle; the time will come."

She raised her eyebrows at him, disbelieving, and he sighed. "I've got to get back. Good night."

"Good night, monsieur."

He bowed and kissed her hand, and was gone.


End file.
